The Girl is Back in the Valley

I'd venture a guess that most of you picked up on the fact that I was rearing kittens this summer. Your first clue might have been the month's worth of blog entries, detailing our progress. What was probably less apparent was that the Findingmoxies were also on the move. For the last year, we'd been jumping through government hoops and getting prodded by government doctors (Mr Findingmoxie, mostly), all to secure Mr Findingmoxie his American visa so that he could try life as an ex-pat this time. 

After 5 years, I was going 'home' in the autumn. Like all things, it sounded more exciting when we first began to plot it out. By the end of the summer, I wanted to keep two kittens and board up the door to our lovely, lovely London flat and NEVER LEAVE. Extreme? Yes, probably. 

American on the inside, British on the outside

But here's what you should know about transatlantic romance. First, the black eyes. There are more goodbyes and temporal displacement than I would wish on anyone. There is the very real risk that one of you will come out with a hybrid accent that baffles you and makes everyone else uncomfortable. There is also the certainty that you'll be deeply out of the loop on one side--culturally and logistically. Try setting up a cellular phone 5 years after you last had one. Things have changed, my friends, things have changed. You may end up having to explain your life history to the man in the shop because you know he's thinking that there is no way you could be so clueless about How Things Are--unless you just crawled out from underneath a rock. And you have no concept of what's 'normal' after 5 years. More importantly, the cultural lexicon has carried on without you. All the inside jokes, the bulk of American TV, the lame teen movies and the ever-changing radio stations have passed you by. It literally feels like you're from outer space at this point. So, while Mr Findingmoxie wants to embrace an athletic outdoorsy life in California, with less television, I want to hole up and catch up on all the television I've missed. But, I digress. 

Your In-Laws Will Indulge Any Whim On The Last Night

 Your Friends Will Respect The Leaving Party Theme

On to the feathers in the cap of transatlantic romance. You have friends everywhere. You even have a couple family homes in different time zones, all without being a trust fund baby. You have multiple stamps in your passport and have lived in exotic places like London, Chesterfield, San Francisco and the San Fernando Valley. You throw huge parties every couple of years when you relocate and all your friends and family shower you with gifts and proclamations of how fond they are of you. When you are in town, all your friends and family have to drop everything to spend time with you. You'll never need to pay for a hotel in either locale. Your friends are thrilled by the idea of holidaying in your spare bedroom and your parents have to spoil you in the hopes that you'll come home soon.  To everyone you meet, your life sounds pretty amazing--the ultimate cocktail story. Best of all, you're on an adventure with the one you love. It's Mr Findingmoxie and I against the world. 

 Anyway, we made it work. We spent two weeks travelling through Europe after I returned the kittens (another blog entry to come) and then another two weeks last-hurrahing through England and packing our stuff together for The Immigration. Pickfords International Removal sent two lively gents (who ate all our biscuits and cheerfully heckled me on how many clothes and shoes I had) to chuck all our precious things  into boxes wily nily. The Pickford's representative, our old chum Rory, sold it to us as a premiere service where we would relax with a glass of wine while experienced professionals gently and efficiently packed our life--yes, he actually said, you'll be sat there with a glass of wine, relaxing while it's all sorted for you. At which point, Mr Findingmoxie dryly reminded him that our removal was scheduled for 8:30 in the morning and not so much a wine time. Sadly. Rory had to conclude that that was a shame. Well, we didn't get wine and we certainly didn't get liveried butlers wrapping my gowns in tissue paper and dust-bagging my shoes. Given how they 'packed' Mr Findingmoxie's shoes, I'm somewhat relieved I didn't get to see them pack mine. My head might have exploded. Oh, my beautiful shoes. All tossed together with no order and mashed out of shape! I'll angst over that for another 9-12 weeks.

In the end, what we didn't ship, we gave away or ruthlessly chucked out. We ditched some in front of the charity shop late on our last eve, surreptitious-style. We bartered 2 bottles of fine single malt Scotch for two croissant sandwiches the morning of our departure. Still think we got the better part of that deal. We finally found ourselves in Heathrow with 5 suitcases, a painting and a top hat. And so very sad to leave it all behind. Thanks, London for the love, the laughs, the hustle, the sights, the late nights, the trains, the house parties and mixing drinks in the office, the camping, the kittens, the Scotch eggs and Sunday roasts, the winters, 2 months of Christmas, the Guinness, the fashion, and the privilege of saying we were Londoners. As we will always be. 

findingmoxie In A Nutshell: Whimsical, Brightly Coloured&Never Packing Light

Next up: the moxies in the Valley and findingmoxie, at 30 something, living with her parents again. Spoiler: there will be angst and hijinks. 

Mr Findingmoxie, Outdoorsy At Last